


not more rubious

by TomBowline



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Sex, Crossdressing, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Jopson/Little, Feminization, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, POV Solomon Tozer, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shame Edward Little Power Hour, Threesome - M/M/M, passing allusions to shipboard theatricals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:07:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28941204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomBowline/pseuds/TomBowline
Summary: Sergeant Tozer comes upon a strange scene on the orlop deck.
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Edward Little/Solomon Tozer
Comments: 11
Kudos: 39
Collections: Lieutenant and Sergeant Gift Exchange





	not more rubious

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ktula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula/gifts).



> A treat for the prompt: "The Dress - Ned in a dress, or Sol in a dress, or both of them in a dress. Bonus points if it's early in the voyage, and there's some kind of theatre performance that one or both of them are involved in, but it's also totally cool to just be, you know, moving stuff around in the ship and have a sudden curiosity about what it would feel like to wear one of the dresses. Additional Pairings: Jopson is more than welcome to join in." Hope it suits!
> 
> Title from Twelfth Night (1.4), because of course it is.

Solomon is down below when he hears it, pacing in the blank blackness of the orlop. He wants a smoke and some quiet, some relief from the close hot air of the mess, but he doesn’t fancy going up to the weather deck and freezing something off, so he’s retreated to the land of spare sailcloth and fancy Fortnum’s tins - not strictly regulation, but nothing to really get in hot water over. Not that hot water’s so easy to come by anyway. 

Up above they’re all dashing about, a hectic shoal of sailors in funny hats and face-paint - there’s to be a theatrical tonight, part of a series organized by Commander Fitzjames and extended to Terror by edict of Sir John. The noise of them all bleeds through the boards above Solomon’s head, calling out for missing costume-pieces and barking lines in makeshift rehearsal. At first he thinks that’s what it is - it disappears into the larger mass of sound, winding its way around the yells and guffaws like a cat between legs. When he draws closer, though, and sees the dull glow of lantern-light, he understands it to be something else. 

“Don’t you look lovely, now.” A quiet voice, even-toned and not quite warm, sneaking into Solomon’s ears ever-so-softly. “Almost like a real lady.” A rustling sound, a creak of shifting weight. “My pretty thing.”

Another voice, tight, low. “Please.” And Solomon recognizes this one - it’s Edward Little, First Lieutenant, he’s certain of it. Being sweet-talked in a darkened ship’s hold, being called a _lady._

This he’s got to see.

He steps forward just a bit, trying to get a look, but he misjudges - comes too far within the bright lantern-light, steps too heavy on the protesting old boards. The two figures standing in the light turn, inexorably, to stare at him. 

One, of course, is Edward Little. As he turns the explanation for such talk becomes apparent - to add to the existing impression of beauty that he carries always with him in his full lips and long lashes, he is dressed up in a ladies’ gown of faded rosy-pink silk. The bodice is soft and lace-lined and clings to his chest and belly in an almost indecent curve; the sleeves are cropped at the elbow to expose his dark-furred forearms; the skirts are modestly draped, supported by a muddy-hemmed petticoat, but not quite voluminous enough to hide where he’s firming up beneath them. On examination, Solomon might realize that it is not truly a ladies’ gown - more likely something from the costume chest, made for a man to wear - but the effect is too breathtaking for him to make such a disinterested inspection. It is a gown, and Little is wearing it; this is all that is relevant. 

After what feels a long moment indeed, he manages to pry his eyes from the lieutenant and take in the man who is stood behind him. 

It is the captain’s steward Thomas Jopson, and he—

“Ah, Sergeant Tozer!” 

Where Little is trembling and obviously mortified, with a fetching red blush creeping across his cheeks, Jopson is as smooth of face and voice as ever. “I’ve been helping Lieutenant Little into his costume for tonight’s theatrical.” His aspect is implacable, very nearly blank, but something in his pale eyes snags at Solomon. It comes to him easily, from a lifetime’s experience of friendly competition: _daring._ Daring him to say something, to do something. 

“Right, well.” Solomon shrugs, shifts his weight as if to leave. “Carry on, then.”

He doesn’t move. He stays rooted to the spot, eyes fixed hopelessly on Little - the slight swell of his chest beneath the dingy silk, the skittish press of his pink lips, the way his broad hands cling and clutch at his skirts like a nervous maid’s. Lord, what a sight he is. Lord, how Solomon wants to be invited in to whatever he’s come upon here. 

From behind, Jopson clears his throat primly and arches one brow. He points his gaze deliberately at Solomon and speaks: “You can touch him if you’d like, Sergeant.”

Little shivers at that, long lashes fluttering shut over his anxious eyes. From above the sweet little border of lace that garlands his clavicle, Solomon sees his throat bob convulsively. 

He realizes he’s holding his breath and attempts to exhale without shaking. (He fails.) His eyes are bouncing between Jopson’s cool visage and Little’s flushing one - for all his wishing a moment ago, it feels now as if he’s waiting for something.

Lieutenant Little nods, just once, just a little jolt. It’s more like a plea than a permission - _get on with it._

Solomon is in the men’s space before he knows what’s happening, hands at Little’s waist, sweeping upwards and back - so _soft,_ he thinks, and it tumbles out of his mouth in the next moment: “It’s a lovely gown you’ve found yourself.” Hands squeezing in at Little’s nipped waistline, making him shift and gasp. “Complements your figure.”

“I rather agree,” Jopson says from behind Little - Solomon had almost forgotten he was there, transfixed by the soft give of the lieutenant’s flesh and the faint tang of the sweat that was already dampening his lovely neck. But he is there nonetheless, all pale eyes and curious creeping smile. “It was my selection. He’s hopeless with those sorts of choices, aren’t you, love?” This, with a sweeping caress over the place where Little’s skirts fell all gathered and frivolous to hide - or accentuate - the modest swell of his behind. “But he’s a lovely little wife, just the same.”

Little’s face screws up further with the words, teeth digging into his lip and cheeks coloring further. He rubs his face into Solomon’s neck and his backside into Jopson’s firm-held hand - the very picture of a wanton woman, but for the whiskers on his cheeks and the lovely yard that Solomon can just see disrupting the fall of the skirts when he rights himself. It’s a damned sight to behold, the lieutenant and his steward lover. The steward and his officer wife.

He gets a knee between Little’s own slinky-silked legs, lets Jopson hold him up as he takes to licking over his neck - tasting him, feeling his pulse hammer frantically fast. “No marks,” Jopson tuts, “I don’t want him spoilt, you understand.” And Solomon _does,_ beyond anything pragmatic or practical, he feels immediately that it would be brutish to besmirch such a lovely pale neck with slavering clumsy bites. Instead he lips gently at Little’s adam’s apple, rasps his tongue over the stubble that’s tucked into the soft spaces beneath his jaw, licks down his neck like a gourmand at a feast - sampling all that might be pleasing. Against his thigh he feels precisely how _pleasing_ it is; Little’s erection sits meek and twitching beneath his skirts, fully hardened now. 

Solomon dips lower; he runs his cheek against the place where Little’s soft-haired chest is bared to the damp below-decks air, tucks his nose into the dip in the middle of it and breathes deep. Soap, sweat, skin. “Quite a hairy chest for a lass,” he says into the front of Little’s gown; he slides his hands up from Little’s quivering flanks to grope and pinch the flesh that lies beneath the bodice. “But such lovely little tits.”

Little _whines,_ desperate and high; from behind, Jopson smiles fondly. “Wonderfully sensitive, as well, Sergeant Tozer,” he says, casting his eyes down pointedly to where Solomon’s hands rest over Little’s sweet hairy tits. Solomon grunts and follows along: one hand tweaking and rubbing at Little’s left nipple while he sets his mouth over the right and bites at it hot and damp through the gown. Through the cushion of Little’s body he can vaguely feel Jopson rubbing himself off against the lieutenant, sighing out quiet little praises as he does so - it makes Solomon’s cock fill, idle and grimy, to witness this tender use, even as he makes his own ministrations to Little’s body. 

“Alright, love,” Jopson murmurs eventually, when Little is squirming in their arms and whining like a creaky line. “Alright, Ned. With me, now.” He lowers the lieutenant gently to the boards and holds his head in his lap, stroking gently at his hair and brow as Little’s hips shift up futilely to hump against thin air. Solomon kneels up in the pool of Little’s skirts, stymied, and watches Jopson coo at Little, feeling a muffled sort of frantic anticipation. What is he meant to do now? 

His unspoken question is answered when Jopson looks up at him - it’s a striking face he has, Solomon realizes all of a sudden, the notched nose and slender cheeks and pale piercing eyes, and that strand of shining hair slipping down inveterately over all - and tosses him a small tin, retrieved from his waistcoat pocket and evidently warmed by its proximity to his body. Solomon catches it without thinking, turns it over in his hand; wool grease. The best remedy for chapped lips and hands and wind-stung cheeks and, as Solomon has learned, the most prevalent aid of buggery amongst the Discovery Service. Jopson’s voice cuts through the gloom, crisp and clear: “Do have him before he soaks through his nice skirts, if you please.”

How can he refuse an order like that?

Little’s skirts come up in a great sea-foam gust, blowing the heavy scent of arousal into Solomon’s face like a filthy perfume. With the fabric rucked about his waist he looks more fetching still; his pale hairy thighs stand out tense against the petticoat, his prick lies red and obscene along the soft heaving swell of his belly, and below it all his hole is twitching in a mad little pulse. 

All at once the desire is overwhelming to touch, to feel, to _claim_ \- Solomon drops forward with his head toward Little’s lap, pulls his thighs apart wider, pries one cheek away from the other with a lovely sweat-damp sound and thumbs over the impossible heat of the lieutenant’s arsehole. Little rolls his hips into the touch almost mindlessly; Solomon does it again, with an oiled finger this time, and Little seizes and groans like he’s been run through. “That’s it, love,” he murmurs, rough and low. “Christ, you’ve got a tight little cunt, hmm?” A pleased-sounding hum from Jopson; a broken moan from Little. 

As he moves inside Lieutenant Little’s body, two fingers then three, he watches the gradual softening of the man’s hole with wild fascination. He’s done this before, of course, but never with such languor; something about Little begs, somehow, to be savored. The sight of Little’s arse, how he’s _made_ Little’s arse - grease slicking down the hair that adorns his little cunny, dusky flesh sucking greedily at Solomon’s thick fingers - is almost enough to make him spend on its own. 

It is with ginger care that he greases his own cock, rubs it along Little’s cleft to feel the furred vital heat of him, and finally breaches him inch by sopping-hot inch. It is with less care that he snaps his hips directly afterwards, unable to restrain himself against the tide of clutching heat, but Little seems not to mind; he groans and pushes back, winds one fine-stockinged foot around Solomon’s thigh, parts his lips in a half-formed plea. Jopson supplies, helpfully: “Oh, dear. You’ll have to be a bit more forceful than that, Sergeant.”

Solomon obliges - how could he do anything else but oblige them both, right at the moment? - and holds the lieutenant’s hips in an encompassing steadying grip as he rams in hard, twice, again, again, again. Little’s prick is leaking juice all over his soft little belly, his lips are wet with licking, and his hole shunts out excess oil with every smacking thrust. “So sloppy,” Solomon pants. “Such an eager little snatch, and so wet for it, hmm. Who’d have thought you’d be such a filthy little miss, Lieutenant?” 

Below him Little turns his head in cowering shame, hides it in the folds of Jopson’s trousers; Jopson’s hand comes up, sure as anything, to rub the lieutenant’s face further into his crotch. The sight makes Solomon go properly fucking loopy - stars bursting, head spinning. He pauses, half-out of Little, and breathes a shaky breath to try and hang on. 

“Do you want my prick, love?” Jopson is saying, face bent down to Little like a crescent moon in the lantern-light. “Would you like something to suck on?” Little nods, rolling his head around almost aimlessly. 

“Good,” Jopson agrees. He kneels up and shifts the lieutenant into a sitting position; Solomon lets his cock slip out, the cool air making a welcome respite from the sweet clutch of Little’s cunt. Jopson is standing, now, and negotiating Solomon up against a low wall of crates with one gentle but unyielding hand against his shoulder. This close, Solomon can smell the wet-wool scent of Jopson sweating through the crotch of his trousers. It makes his mouth water. 

Little shuffles over, debauched and resplendent in his fine faded gown, and seats himself back onto Solomon’s cock with a pleased little sigh. The way they’re positioned now, Solomon can’t get much leverage, but what he can get he puts to use in punchy little thrusts that have Little shuddering and groaning prettily into the night once again. The exposure to the air has taken the edge off, and Solomon feels like he could go for hours, a fine machine for the lieutenant to fuck himself on.

His attention is divided, suddenly, by the opening of Jopson’s trouser-flies beside him. Both Solomon’s eyes and Little’s are trained on the captain’s steward as he tugs his trousers and drawers down just enough to free his slender pink prick and the plump dark-haired sack below it. He gives a stroke to the former, a tug to the latter, and then he’s nudging his hips forward and Little is taking it into his mouth like he was born for it with that same contented sigh. 

Solomon stops, thighs tense in an upward thrust, and _watches_ \- what a show it is. Lieutenant Little takes to the steward’s prick like a starving man, lapping along the head and swallowing the shaft as well as any doxy but with much more honest zeal for the job. Solomon starts rolling his hips again, seeking the ravenous friction of fucking, and it jostles Little further onto Jopson’s prick; the lieutenant runs to little choking gulps around it that make something savage inside Solomon light up quite brightly. 

Jopson winds his hand into Little’s hair, like a shepherd gripping onto a fleece, and tugs him off to let him breathe; begins, instead, stripping himself off with his own fist, sheathing and unsheathing the glistening cherry of his head in mercenary rhythm mere inches from Little’s face. Inches from Solomon’s face, opposite Little, and he can _smell_ Jopson, can smell the filmy edge of soap in his groin and the tangy bloom of the clear fluid that’s welling from his slit, can almost taste it all thick and sticky in the back of his throat. He’s so close, it wouldn’t be anything at all to lean up and take the steward’s prickhead in his mouth. 

Jopson gasps when he does it, hisses out an oath, and Solomon feels a kind of vicious joy at having at last made him something less than calm. He tastes like any other man, pulsing hot with want in his mouth, but he fancies can feel Jopson’s uncanny lighthouse gaze upon him, burning the back of his neck as he works him over. Somehow it only makes him harder, being observed that way. 

Little himself is staring at the pair of them with eyes glazed over, sitting becalmed in Solomon’s lap as he looks. His mouth is open, wet with spit, shining like anything - and then he’s leaning forward to mouth at Jopson’s prick, cheek brushing against Solomon’s, lips hot and slick against his own as he slips his tongue around the shaft - and it hits him all at once, Little’s mouth against his own and Jopson’s prick dripping down their chins and his own prick in Little’s arse, held there fast and firm, and it is far more than too much. He spends himself into Little’s hot hairsome cunt with a growl of a groan and a hand on his hip, clutching a handful half of silk and half of flesh. 

As soon as Solomon’s out of him, Little is groaning and reaching a hand up under his skirts to see to himself, but Jopson bunts his hand away easily with one booted foot. “Don’t make a mess of yourself, now,” he scolds. “Sergeant, help him with his skirts.”

Once again Solomon unwraps Little’s lower half, ruddy hard prick twitching eagerly and wet little hole gone loose and red from stretching. As Solomon grasps Little’s cock, Jopson mounts the lieutenant’s face once more and fucks in sure and unyielding. 

The next moments pass Solomon by in a frenzied haze: everything is laid before him and nothing is clear - his focus bounces between the heft of Little’s prick and stones, the spit going down his chin, the slick base of Jopson’s cock pistoning in and out of him, the fluttering of his long maidenly lashes - until he hears him choke, sees his throat convulse with Jopson’s issue, and in the next moment feels a spill of briny warmth across his hand. 

Little seems to deflate after he’s spilt himself - he goes limp and pliant, drops his head to Jopson’s thigh and rubs his face against the wool there. He’s still sprawled like a dead weight in Solomon’s lap, one hand braced low on his belly, and Solomon can’t help but savor the contact. This has always been his favorite part, when a lover has the time to linger in his bed after the deed is done. 

But this is not his bed, and these men are not his lovers; all too soon they rise and fall back into place with each other, leaving him to pace the perimeter. Jopson twirls his hand about, and Little steps obediently in a small circle, skirts swishing; Jopson inspects one corner of the fabric, tuts, admonishes him for the stain. Kisses him on the cheek and smooths his hair back into place. It’s plain that there’s no room for Solomon to insert himself into this dance. 

He turns to leave. Behind him, Jopson’s voice drifts along the length of the deck to snag in his ear: “Do come back and visit us, Sergeant. Any time you’d like.”


End file.
